


Éinín—Wings Mended

by crewdlydrawn



Series: Éinín [4]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barsad's POV, Companion Piece, Domestic, Filling In the Gaps, First Time Parenting, Found Family, Gen, Home Invasion, Kid Fic, Pre-Canon, romance not the point of most chapters, supplementary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 12:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18223361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: Companion works to Éinín—Little Bird, with narrative featuring Barsad's point of view. Each chapter is an encapsulated short work taking place at some point during the arc of the first portion of John's story with Bane and Barsad. Both John's age and any necessary and relevant context will be listed with each, not necessarily in chronological order.**previously deleted, now expanded**





	1. First Meeting - Age 8

**Author's Note:**

> I may add more to this, later, as I originally had over a dozen pieces planned.

Barsad crouched over the stilled form of the small boy, waiting to be sure his breathing was even and continuing, checking that his pulse was steady and there were no immediately evident reactions to the sedative before he stood, stepping back.  “He should sleep through until the morning,” he spoke into the sudden quiet as it returned.  “Or until we need to move him.”  They had not been inside when the boy had come in, but they had seen him on their approach.  Spotting a lone walking figure against the snow in that section of the city was ridiculously easy.  As such, the boy was far too young to have been walking it on his own.

There was a quiet clinking behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see his partner toeing at the rifle shells littering the corner of the room.  “He reacted to these quite strongly,” he spoke thoughtfully, his voice echoing just slightly inside of the mask despite its low volume.  The way the kid had dropped the box of shells, he had obviously been rather spooked by their presence.  “It is possible his parents were shot, if they are indeed dead.”

It made sense, and Barsad nodded his agreement.  Looking back at the boy again to assure he was still out, he went to gather their own sleeping rolls, setting them up close to the fire but not directly next to their stowaway.  They had not planned on using the third yet, but it was necessary in the moment.  Reaching his hands over his head, Barsad stretched out his back, always a little sore after a rough night when he had to crouch in tight spaces to keep an eye on things, on Bane.  He found travel suited it similarly ill.

“Does it need attention?” the resonating voice asked from behind him.

“It is alright, brother,” he replied, stretching more.  He wanted the other man to get his rest first, knowing how he ached even with the help of his mask.  There was a certain level of pain that simply never left the man alone, despite Barsad’s best efforts to craft a better analgesic.  “Do not trouble yourself for me.”

The other man clicked his tongue reprovingly, rising with a grunt and stepped over to him.  “It would not do to let it get worse, Barsad.  You know this.”  Large, strong hands settled about Barsad’s shoulders and neck, and he was pulled back against his chest, leaning into his solid warmth.  “Let me take care of it for you.”  His brother’s hands, lethal when necessary, could also be incredibly soothing.  The work to his muscles came equally with pain as it did release, but that made its effect more strong, longer lasting.  He was turned then, and he let his head rest against the thick shirt stretching across a broad chest as his back was worked steadily out of its knots.

“Mm,” he breathed, wanting to slip his arms around his brother to return the comfort, but knowing he would be scolded for not relaxing, for not simply submitting to the touch.  Turned back around, he was surrounded by thick, strong arms and lifted carefully.  He breathed out steadily as he felt the vertebrae in his spine shift back into place with resounding clicks.  “Ahh…”  Bane held him for a few moments longer, letting the muscles settle after the assault before setting him back down on the floor.  Breathing out slowly, he turned side to side, immediately noting the difference the adjustment had made.  “Thank you, brother.”

“You know you have only to ask,” Bane replied, easing himself down to the floor atop his bedroll, but not settling, a silent offer to take the first watch of their short rest. 

Rather than question him, knowing if Bane had made up his mind nothing would change it, Barsad simply nodded, shucking his vest and lying down to catch an hour of sleep before they were due out again.  The work itself would be inconsequential, really, not something that they would have chosen for themselves, but it served their overall purpose.  Carmine Falcone’s network was extensive even for a major-city mob boss, and Barsad had been steadily gathering intel on both criminal dealings as well as the status of the rest of the city even before they had arrived inside its limits.  They were to build, if slowly, toward the inevitable storm that needed to rise and purge the corrupt society that plagued it.  The capital resources they would begin gathering were also invaluable, not only for themselves, but for their original purpose in being sent to Gotham.  For her.

When his hour was up, he was gently awakened, and he sat to watch for his brother’s rest.  The boy hadn’t appeared to have moved, and according to his brother’s brief report he had slept the hour with peaceful breathing.  Barsad watched him quietly, listened to the soft sounds of his sleep, so different from those of his brother.  It had been many years since he had last been in the presence of a child, and the memories were not so peaceful. 

“Shall we discuss the matter?” Bane spoke quietly from his bedroll before settling.

“Rest is more important right now; we can decide what to do with him later,” Barsad posed.  He wouldn’t dream of ordering his brother, but he knew how tired they both were, with a long night ahead.  They had spent the day in travel, having only set up inside of the house a mere hour or so before the boy had wandered inside of it.  It was a curious thing, even with the boy’s story, were it true.  He seemed sincere, however, young enough and perhaps innocent of what things caused self-believed lies so early.

“I think the answer to that is clear,” Bane spoke simply.

“Clear?” he questioned.  There were a couple of options he imagined his brother endorsing.

“Yes,” his voice hissed softly through the mask, and his eyes shifted to the boy.  “Already he holds so much anger.  The city will harden him quickly, if left alone.”  His tone was quiet, thoughtful, and Barsad listened patiently.  “I will leave it to you, brother, if you wish to keep him or turn him out.”  Those distant eyes turned toward him again, locking onto his and awaiting his answer.

“…To me?” he asked, surprised.  “If _I_ wish to keep him?”

“Yes.”  Then, when Barsad was clearly still uncertain, he continued, “If he stays, he will be yours.  There is a strength that develops in the soul when it is charged with the protection of innocence.”  He looked off again, and Barsad knew he was seeing his past, seeing her.  “I once held innocence in my hands, and it has made me stronger for it.  I would not deny you the same opportunity for growth.”

Barsad hadn’t thought of it that way.  He’d never cared for a child, not in his adult life, though at one time, lifetimes ago despite his limited years, he had had younger siblings to tend to.  This, keeping this boy, it would be a challenge unlike any he had faced before.  He wasn’t sure he was up to the task of protecting something so vulnerable, so precious, while they fulfilled their darker work inside this city.  And, of course, were he to stay permanently, there were innumerable other items to consider in his care as he grew older.  The culmination of their efforts in the city could take years.  He hesitated further, and Bane finally met his eyes again, the piercing gaze penetrating into his soul, goading it to rise, to be strong.  The only answer there could be was yes.  He would not let his brother down.

“…He will stay,” he firmly spoke, adjusting the boy’s blanket about his shoulders before he stood.

“Very well,” Bane replied with a nod, and Barsad could tell he was pleased.


	2. Prowler - Age 9

Barsad opened his eyes, alert in the darkness.  There was yet a bit of moonlight glowing at the windows, though the sky he could glimpse beyond the curtain was a deep blue, almost black, still predawn.  He lay there a moment, taking stock of himself, of his brother’s filtered breathing beside him.  There was always that moment when something awoke him in which he could not yet determine what that something had been, and it was a moment he loathed.  In such moments, anything was possible, and his mind raced to prepare his body, his reflexes and his wits for whatever eventuality presented itself.  And so he listened quietly, still and ready, until he heard it; a clink from downstairs—the kitchen, he decided after placing the sound over the map he kept of the house in his head. 

Bane was asleep beside him, and though their boy had at times sleepwalked, it was generally not to eat.  Eyes narrowed, he rose silently from the mattress, careful not to disturb his brother’s slumber as he did, and padded stealthily out of the room.  He paused outside John’s room, peeking inside and noting his curled-up form under the blanket as he’d expected to find it.

A prowler, then.

He smirked at the knowledge, but it died on his face as he watched John shift in his sleep, stirred by the repeated noise from below.  There was little worry for himself or Bane in the presence of a common thief, but a small child didn’t have the same level of defense as they.  He would allow no harm to come to him.  The sounds not having advanced, he closed his little bird’s door, taking the short moment it required to toss on a pair of pants and lace up his boots.  He wouldn’t need much else. 

Easing down the steps once he returned to them, avoiding each place in which the wooden boards creaked with pressure, he lifted himself over the end of the banister to silently drop down into the hallway, crouching and peering into the front room.  Just because sounds came from the kitchen did not mean that the rest of the house was empty of intruders.  It did seem that was the case this time, however, and he made his way to the edge of the kitchen, turning his gaze around the corner, his hand resting on the knife he kept strapped to his cargo pants, always at the ready.

There was indeed an intruder lurking around their cabinets, and Barsad took the time to make certain he could not be identified as one of their contacts before he took any action against him.  The figure passed through the stream of moonlight from the back window, and he could see an unfamiliar face in it.  So far, he had only gathered food into a knapsack, possibly having seen the smoke from their fire and broken inside in desperate hunger.  He could not be certain yet, however, and so he waited.  Survival’s fortune favored the bold, but not if he posed a danger to them or their little one.  Barsad felt his insides harden further into resolve at just the thought of him getting hurt.

Watching more closely at the knapsack, he realized there was only a pretense of stolen food, for nothing inside would sustain even one man in the cold, and they had far better stores to be pilfered.  The man moved on to the front room, Barsad standing atop a small table in the hall by the door to the kitchen, pressed flat against the corner and going unseen by the intruder.

Ah.  The knapsack was hastily set down, and the toolbox opened.  Barsad heard a whispered “jackpot” as the man began carefully gathering rifle shells and placing them in his pack.  The guns they had were all upstairs, but no doubt he would go looking for them if he did not find them down there, which would possibly lead him to John.  Barsad did not intend to allow him the chance.  So he stalked to the stairway’s end, watching coldly as the man hurried his task, perhaps sensing his impending doom, and allowed the shells to clink clumsily inside the bag.  By now, Bane would have woken, but it was likely John was still asleep.  Once he fully settled, when he could, even without a sedative, he slept deeply.  At least, he did by then, if not at first.

Only extreme familiarity allowed him to hear his brother’s approach as he descended the staircase.  Naturally, Bane’s footfalls were heavy things, the sound of them full of the weight of his body, but even he could make his movements silent when he pleased.  It was a more impressive feat to him than any manner of stealth Barsad achieved with his smaller frame. 

He turned to catch his eye, finding his brother’s gaze fixed on the front room.  It flicked to Barsad, and he gave him a nod, acknowledging that he was to take care of it.  Barsad returned it, and his brother soundlessly ascended once more.  Unfortunately, John let out a cough from his room, and Barsad’s attentions snapped back into place on the man now officially his mark.  He’d clearly heard the sound, and was eyeing the staircase tensely.  Closing his pack, he slung it over his shoulder and pulled a sizeable knife from his belt.  Barsad felt a growl threaten to erupt audibly from his throat as he watched the gleaming metal advance with the man towards the stairs. 

Easing backwards along the wall, Barsad pulled himself up onto and over the banister where the stairs turned, perching on the landing and awaiting the man’s position to reach him, waiting to pounce, to kill.  Time slowed, the man’s movements turning languid even as he rose along the steps, the gleam in his eyes visible, needing to be purged.  He had all the time he needed, truly.  The man was being cautious, but not enough.  He had lost the moment he had entered their home, and Barsad would show him how much he had truly erred.  And so as he stepped one foot onto the landing, Barsad sent a swift-footed kick to the man’s shin, feeling the bone give under his hard boot, and covered the man’s mouth, stifling his scream. 

Face pressed close to the man’s ear, he stilled his squirms in a constricting grip.  “This is my house,” he whispered viciously.  “Had you taken your food and gone, you would have left with your life, but now,” he paused to kick the man’s good leg out from under him, holding him up only enough to make him sputter and whimper as his weight fell on the broken one.  “Now,” he continued with a snarl, “since you chose to threaten my family, you will not leave here, at all.”

He ignored the muffled protesting screams as he dragged the man down the rest of the stairs.  His uninjured leg kicked, flailing for purchase, but Barsad kept his angle steady.  It did not matter that the man’s frame was a good bit larger—he had to be at least six full feet tall—he was no match; Barsad knew how to overpower men larger than himself.  Quick action was key, to catch one’s opponent off guard and go straight for their weakest points.  In such ways, he had been known to take even Bane to the floor from time to time, much to both of their pride.

Keeping a hand over the sputtering mouth, he delivered a swift punch to the kidney to distract his charge while he let one hand go enough to open the door to the basement.  It would not do to awaken their little one to the sounds of screams.  They would still be heard, no doubt, but they would be much more muffled things, and could perhaps go mostly unnoticed if John were not already awake.

His blow had the desired effect, and he was able to open the door and carry the man partway down the stairs before he recovered from the shock of the pain.  No light was needed yet as he took carefully memorized steps downward, and with a grunt over the effort, he turned, using his momentum from the sharp movement to fling the man’s sprawling body up and onto a large steel table usually reserved for his chemical work, but which had been cleared after his last batch had been completed and delivered to their employer.  Releasing his hold on the man’s mouth, wet with blood from where he had bitten Barsad’s hand, meant he was treated to an earsplitting screech of a yell, amusingly high-pitched for a man of his stature.  Pain did strange things to the body, to the mind.  Before he could gather his senses, Barsad had tied down his wrists and ankles with a quick efficiency.  Only then did he reach to pull the overhead light’s chain, only then was he revealed to the scum lying pitifully before him.

The man’s eyes widened, and there was recognition there, beneath the fear, though Barsad knew they had never met.  He did not forget faces, and this young man would have registered with him with his smooth features and fierce gaze, though tempered by fear.  It was truly a shame to waste such spirit that could have been used for their cause, instead.  Perhaps there was some chance, yet.

“You look at me as if you know me.  What do you know, boy?” he demanded harshly, the lamp’s sway from the ceiling spreading a rocking pool of light over the table and the boy.  He could see now he was truly no more than a child, most likely still a teen, hardly twice John’s age.  Barsad was young yet, his twenties still firm, but there were many ways to age; this one had not had much life in his handful of years.  Not desperation, then… but what had driven him to their home?  One chance.

“I-I…” he spat blood, likely from having bitten his tongue.  “I was told to come here,” he choked out through the pain of his broken bone.

“Who sent you?” Barsad pressed, jabbing a fist into his side to encourage the explanation to come faster.  When he didn’t get one still, he turned, calmly reaching for a case sitting on the shelf behind him, opening it on the table beside the boy.  Wide eyes watched him take out each of the long, gleaming knives it contained, letting their surfaces glint in the swinging light before he set them down. 

“Oh, shit, no, _fuck_ no!” the boy cried out, pulling against the ties on his wrists and ankles.  “I didn’t sign up for this shit!”

Holding back the sneer that tugged at his lip, Barsad leaned over the boy’s head, upside down from the end of the table, and peered into his widened, frightened eyes.  “And just what _did_ you sign up for?” he asked evenly, fingering the handle of one of his knives.  “Keep in mind,” he added, letting the spine of the blade scrape along the top of the table with a metallic ring, “lies will cost you.”

“No one said there’d be anyone awake, and no one said I’d get _hurt_ ,” the pitiful form below him sputtered.  It was a pathetic attempt at sympathy, and Barsad had none to spare for vermin invading his home.

“If you expect not to be taken to pieces,” he hissed, “you will need to do better than that.”  Taking his blade, he sliced down into the meat of the boy’s forearm.  His scream was almost a satisfying sound, but it was far from enough.  “Now, try again.”  For every obvious lie or vague half-truth, he sliced deeply.  By the time he was begged to stop, to have mercy, the body before him was crisscrossed over every part with lacing red lines, his blood migrating to the table where it gathered before dripping to the concrete floor below.  There was nearly enough to make him slip from consciousness, but Barsad knew well when to stop; it had little to do with his desperate pleas for mercy. 

Wiping blood from the boy’s face where it had dripped from the blade, he leaned over him again, close enough for his breath to shift the other’s hair along his forehead.  “Who sent you,” he asked again.

His words came quickly now, intentional guile gone, deception no longer an option.  “I never saw his face, alright?  I got… I got a letter, with half a payment, and this address.  I was just supposed to take the kid!”  Gasping in his body’s panic, he spit to the side, still tinged red from where Barsad had struck him before.  “I needed the money, okay?  It’s hard, man, it’s really hard, and they give me money—”

“They give you money to steal children?” Barsad nearly spat directly into the pathetic face in his disgust.  “How sympathetic,” he added dryly. 

The boy shook his head, swallowing with difficulty.  “It’s not like that…  It’s not always stealing.  Sometimes they don’t belong there.”  It was likely what they told him, anyway, added motivation.  Hope of doing the ‘right thing’ kept many at task.  Idealists.

“Who paid you?” he redirected, holding his knife in view.

“They’ll kill me if I tell!”

“I will kill you far more slowly and painfully if you don’t,” he promised, “and not before I’ve quite literally divided you into pieces, do you understand?”

“Falcone,” he nearly whimpered at last.  “He pays the bills, everyone knows that, even if no one ever sees him.”

Falcone.  Though he tended to enjoy being right, having this suspicion confirmed only soured him.  The vermin would have use, after all.  “You will report to Carmine himself,” he said as he began packing up his knives, “and you will give him a message for me.”

There was a conflicted relief in the boy’s eyes, unsure if this was truly better or worse than continued torture.  “Wh-What’s the message?” he asked, sputtering past the fear in his throat.

Barsad’s lips peeled back into an icy cold smile.  “Oh, you’re not going to speak it,” he confided quietly, pulling a small, surgically sharp blade back out of the pack.  “You’re going to _be_ it.”

Bloodshot eyes widened further, and to a chorus of useless refusals and desperate begging, Barsad began to slice into his chest, carving out crisp, clean letters amidst smaller, shallower nicks and cuts.  When the boy made it to report, Falcone could read and witness for himself that having their little bird with them would not weaken them nor distract them.  It would show exactly how much they would punish any attempt to hurt him.  It was irksome that they needed the man’s structure in Gotham too much to simply kill the source, but this would have to do for now.

Once the excess blood had been cleaned, wiped from the boy’s skin, Barsad bandaged his chest to protect his message, using some of the fluid to write out a scrawled ‘read me’ over the white cloth to be sure it would not by easily overlooked.  Keeping his shirt, he unbuckled the boy from the table, guiding him upstairs and out to the alley where he kept his bike.  With a length of thick rope taken from the basement, he lashed the boy behind him on the bike, reminding him that if he let himself fall, Barsad would only come back for him and make him regret letting go.  He managed to stay upright, his breath against Barsad’s neck even with the wind of the ride, and in minutes they were outside Falcone’s bar, never dark even in the dead of night.  Letting loose the slipknot that kept them tethered, Barsad barely rolled to a stop as he dumped the boy near the door of the seedy establishment.  Even if no enforcers were outside at the moment, signaling that Carmine was elsewhere, he knew no one else would pick the boy up in his territory.  With a quick motion to gather the loose rope, he headed off for home.

Killing the engine several buildings away, he walked the bike back the rest of the alley in hopes of keeping John asleep, if he still was.  There was no need for him to be disturbed.  As he closed the door silently, making his way to the staircase, a small shuffling sound alighted on his ears, giving him pause.  Before he even looked up, he knew.  “Yes, Éinín?” he called softly.

Sleepy brown eyes met his as he looked up and John descended the bottom half of the stairs, rubbing through his tousled hair.  “Who was here?” he asked, his voice light and innocent, even when muffled by sleepiness.

Barsad gave him a reassuring smile, joining him on the steps and scooping his boy into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.  “No one to worry about, little one,” he assured.  “It’s taken care of.”

Small arms slipped around his shoulders, a weary head against his neck.  “Thanks, daddy.”  The words were quiet, full of precious trust that Barsad would never let him get hurt.  It was not a trust he took lightly, nor one he intended ever to betray, if it were possibly in his power to control. 

“Of course, Éinín.”  With a kiss to his brow, he tucked John into his bed, waiting to be sure he was settled under the sheet and on his way back to slumber before he left him for his own room.  His clothing, having been tossed on hastily at the sounds of their intruder, were pulled back off the moment he returned.  “Awake?” he spoke into the darkness, though he knew the answer.

“Yes.  Now come back to bed.”

“Gladly.”  The sheet was already flipped back for him, and he pressed in close beside Bane as he resettled it, leeching his warmth.  Tugging at his wrist, he shifted a strong arm around his waist.  “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Yes, we will,” the rumble of Bane’s voice agreed.  They would prepare for any eventuality as always, but Barsad anticipated that once their message was received, there would be no more issues with such purposeful intruders.


	3. Sickness - Age 9

Pausing in his work, Barsad listened closely for the sound to repeat itself.  After only a handful of moments, it was there again; a wet, sickly cough from the front room.  Carefully setting down the detached gun barrel he had been swabbing out, he slipped the gun’s emptied shells into the pocket of his vest where it hung on the back of the chair beside him before moving to investigate.

“He appears feverish,” he was greeted by his brother’s deep tone as he stepped into the room.

John was lying on his bedroll, the blanketing top of it having been kicked off and jumbled about his feet, his limbs limply stretching out beside him along the material.  There was a sheen of sweat on his face, and his hair clung damply to his head. 

“Was he sleeping?” Barsad asked, stepping over to crouch down next to the boy. 

“Fitfully,” Bane replied, not pausing in his work fixing his armored chest plate where its straps were beginning to fray.  It was not that he did not care for John’s welfare, but the charge of the finer points of the boy’s care was solely on Barsad.  He was to keep the boy safe, to raise him and protect him, even as Bane protected them both.

Barsad nodded, pressing the back of his hand to John’s forehead, feeling the heat radiate strongly.  His skin was damp, and a check of his arms revealed their clamminess, as well.  His breathing was labored, and a light wheeze caught with each inhale.  Eyes stared at the ceiling, glassy with the fever’s haze.

Clicking his tongue, Barsad quickly stripped the boy to his underclothes, retrieving a cold cloth to wipe him down, cleaning the sweat off of him and starting to cool down his still-heated skin.  “John, are you awake?” he asked quietly, leaning over the boy to try to catch his gaze. 

The boy’s eyes seemed to focus and unfocus, not staying fixed on Barsad’s for more than a small moment at a time.  His small chest heaved with each cough that wracked through his body.  He managed a moan, but no real words in reply.  Barsad prepared a new, clean cloth and laid it over John’s forehead to help ease it.  Leaving him briefly, he carefully put together a concoction to help his body fight off the infection.  John winced as the syringe found its way into his arm, but Barsad shushed him quietly, humming softly to keep him calm.

“Just the one pinch, little one, that’s all, I promise,” he soothed, wiping the spot clean. 

Barsad stayed by his side as the fever worsened until it broke, and then guarded his rest when he finally cooled enough to sleep more peacefully.  Though his brother went out that night, he did not, instead watching over John, making sure he ate, and working to steadily build his health over the next two days until he felt it was safe to leave him again.  While he had cared for sick men and women in their ranks, had treated wounds, had nursed himself back to health from far too close to death’s door more times than he had fingers with which to count, nothing unnerved Barsad so as watching his boy’s small form work desperately to keep itself healthy.  So much could go wrong with such a little frame, with all of its rapid growth and adjustments, that it was both a wonder and a fearful knowledge.

Nights they left John at home, Barsad found himself worrying, in the back of his mind, for the boy’s wellbeing.  Was he sleeping soundly?  Had his body fully mended?  What other offenses lurked at the edges of his immune system, waiting to trip him up and cause him harm?  Was Barsad following the right paths to keep him strong, to teach him properly, to lead him to his full potential?

Such swirling thoughts might have tripped him up, caused him to stray his attentions or lose focus on their missions, but instead Barsad found his vision sharper.  His grip was exact, tight, and true.  His sights were precise, and his mind tackled changes to their plans with tactical calculations.  Caring for their little bird, keeping him safe, working to guide him on the path to life and strength, all of those things were far from a weakness or detriment to his work.  They only made Barsad stronger, in return.


	4. Video Games - Age 12

“C’mon, wake up!”  Barsad had been hearing the insistent commands for the past several minutes, but had little desire to indulge them just yet.  John knew that it was not yet time for him to be awake, and he would simply have to wait.  Nevermind that their little bird was terrible at waiting.

To tease the boy’s patience, Barsad let out a sleepy-sounding groan and turned over onto his stomach, resettling his breathing in mostly feigned slumber.  He was awake now, of course, and well enough alert, but he was still able to allow himself the indulgence of peacefully closed eyes and the last vestiges of dreams at the edges of his consciousness.  He did not often dream, but those nights during which he did filled his mind’s eye with images and memories of his homeland; they were fuzzy at best, but they were his, nonetheless.  Not all of the things he saw in sleep were light or peaceful, but each was a part of him.  Pretending the past did not exist only served one ill.

“Barsaa-a-a-a-ad…” came the exaggerated whine from above him, accompanied by a shake to his bare shoulder.  “Wake u-u-u-u-up!”  The boy was lucky Bane had left earlier that morning to meet with Talia, or he would not have put up with that kind of behavior.

His patience, at the moment, however, sprung half from anticipating how loudly he could make the boy screech in shock when he finally turned over without any warning and grabbed him up.  In fact, he lasted for several more well-sustained whines and a number of rousing attempts at his shoulder before the boy paused, silent for the moment. The weight on the edge of the bed shifted, and Barsad could tell by it that John had sat back from where he had been leaning over him.  Counting a few more breaths, Barsad suddenly flipped over, grabbing the startled boy by his waist on the way, and pinning him to the bed even with the sheet still wrapped around his own frame.  An immediate, merciless attack at the boy’s sides commenced.  Had it been a few years earlier, he would have gotten an even screechier response, but even as it was, he still cried out sharply in surprise, squirming and gasping for breath as his nerves were assaulted.

“Ahh!” he cried out.  “S-stop!  No!” was accompanied, of course, by a set of breathless giggles.  “N-no more!”  The boy’s knees came up, trying to create space between them to lessen his attack, but it was no use.  Slender as he was, Barsad was still much stronger than his little Robin, even in the spasms of being tickled.

“Apologize,” Barsad ordered calmly, his face composed, save for the gleam of a smirk in his eyes.

“O-okay!” John shrieked as his armpits were reached.  “Okay!  I-I apologize!  I’m sorry!  Lemme go-o-o-o!”  Fresh giggles erupted as he let out the last word, prolonging it amusingly.

“Hmm…” Barsad tilted his head, pretending to think it over, not having paused his hands.  “I am not certain you are sincere,” he accused, enjoying the wail that it caused his boy to let out.

“No-o-o-o, l-leggo!”  More giggles.  “I p-promise!  I’m sincere!”  Each word was punctuated with a gasped breath.

Smirking more openly, Barsad finally relented, merely holding the boy’s waist calmly as he fought to catch his breath, to calm himself.  His face was flushed down to his neck, and a couple of giggles escaped his throat even after he was released. 

“Jerk,” he flippantly but insincerely indicted.  “What if I’d PEED?”

Barsad simply shrugged.  “The bedding washes easily, little one.  I might only have laughed.”

The mock pout only rested on the boy’s face for a moment before his prior insistence returned to him suddenly.  “Oh!  You gotta get dressed and come out; there’s something I wanna show you!”

John wiggled out from under him and slid off of the bed, bouncing in his excitement.  Barsad chuckled quietly, disentangling his waist and legs from the sheet to stand without shame, gathering his clothing.  Most nights, he slept in minimal clothing, the rest remaining close by at the ready should anything go awry in the night that would need handling.  There was also a small handgun tucked under his pillow for just such an eventuality.  On nights when they were not too tired, however, any clothing only got in the way.  John had asked, once, and had been told, with minimal sugar-coating, what went on between them that caused them to sleep naked together.  Innocence was important, ignorance was not.  At twelve years, with his body bordering on adolescence, he was old enough for such talks on a certain level. 

“Are you ready, now?”  John’s voice bounced along with his body as Barsad pulled a fresh shirt over his head.

“Yes, my impatient little boy.  I am ready.  What is it that you have to show me?”  Amused, he allowed himself to be pulled at and led out of the room by his hand, ordered to close his eyes along the way.  Halfway into the main room, however, he knew they were no longer alone.  He could smell the faint alluring scent of his sister’s perfume, and could not contain a small smile at the surprise visit; he had thought only Bane would get to see her that day.  “May I open yet, little one?” he asked lightly.

“Wa-a-a-a-ait… Okay, now!” exclaimed a finally steady-voiced John, having led Barsad toward the couch and released his hand.

Opening first one eye and then the other, he was greeted by the sight of a small but new television set in place of the very old box that had been placed on the table for John, along with a curious rectangular object—an electronic device of some kind, that much was clear—beside it complete with buttons and many wires snaking out from both its back and its front.  It was hooked up to the television, and there were hand-sized devices attached to the wires in front of it sitting atop the table, as well.  The smaller devices were oddly pronged, covered in small buttons of their own.  Barsad tilted his head curiously as he looked at one.

“See?” John was saying to Talia and Bane who were standing near the couch, behind Barsad.  “I _told_ you he wouldn’t know what it was, either!”  This fact seemed to amuse their boy greatly, but Barsad indeed had no idea what the machine could possibly be for.  He had never seen its like.

He turned when he heard his sister’s soft, throaty chuckle, offering her a smile before she invited him toward her with a nod.  “Sister,” he greeted, kissing lightly at her cheek, doing his best not to scratch its soft, smooth surface with the coarse texture of his beard.  She did not mind the hair itself, having assured him it fit his face better than most men could get away with according to her standards, but she did tend to wrinkle her nose in complaint if he was not careful with the friction its presence inevitably caused in contact. 

“Hello, my brother,” she returned, trailing soft fingertips down his upper arm.  “I’ve brought your charge a present to help keep him entertained when he is left behind and _awake_ and runs out of books to study.”  Her eyes were sparkling in amusement.  “Young boys need something to occupy their idle hours, lest they get themselves into trouble.”

There was not even a moment of Barsad questioning the presence of such a gift, even not having heard a whisper of its coming.  He suspected she had discussed it with Bane while they had been out earlier in the day, but even so, she needed no permissions.  While they were providing the most direct raising of their boy, he belonged to them all, needed all of their guidance and input to become as full and whole as he possibly could.

“She bought me an N64!” John announced gleefully.

“What does the device do?” Bane questioned, as usual looking to the heart of the matter.

“It’s a video game system,” the boy stated in a matter-of-fact voice, as if the declaration itself revealed all that needed to be known.  Seeming to note the still-confused faces around him, he added, “It plays video games…”

“What is that, John?”

“…” John stared at him.  “Jesus…” he exclaimed in surprise, and earned himself a sharp cuff from Bane.  “…Sorry,” he winced.  “I just… really?  No video games?  Ever?”

“Perhaps you should explain them, boy,” Bane encouraged.

The boy nodded, and launched into an explanation that was only truly helpful, Barsad imagined, to those who were already familiar with the basic working concepts involved.  “It’s fun; you can beat the levels, sometimes bosses, and it saves it, and I’ve never had one, but the kid across the hall from us when I was little had a SEGA and an Atari, and I got to play with his a couple of times when the games worked, I think they were bootlegged…”

“John,” Talia’s calm voice broken into the ramble at last, “why don’t you simply show them how it works?”

“Oh!  Okay!” he grinned, setting about flicking switches and pressing buttons until the television screen lit up with garishly bright colors. 

The sounds it emitted were simple and electronic in nature, quite foreign to Barsad’s ears and not exactly what he would normally have termed ‘music.’  Though John fumbled with the buttons, he soon had what appeared to be a game running through the device and onto the screen.  It seemed similar to a computer’s workings, though its practicality remained to be seen.  Apparently, the smaller, hand-sized pronged objects connected to the device were called ‘controllers,’ and like a remote, they sent the signals through the game’s computer to run it.  The process seemed logical enough once he knew the particulars, and Barsad planned to take it apart later, when John was asleep, to see how it worked inside.

****

Talia did not stay long, it was a morning with a busy schedule for her, but just seeing her was enough to lift Barsad’s spirits.  Though he was careful to try not to hinge his own happiness on her or his brother, he could not help how much they both affected him.  He was theirs, ever so much more, even, than John was now his.  And yet, he could already see how his own moods, emotions and actions affected the boy in a similar way.  There was no doubt that his little bird was capable of a high level of loyalty and devotion.  Not to mention, though Barsad typically placed less stock in it, love.

It took only three days for John to insist that they play one of the games with him on his new device.  Barsad had already explored its inner workings, having discovered it was quite similar to a computer, after all, and it had worked just fine upon reassembling it.  Bane was reluctant to agree to participate, but their little one was so excitable, so bright when he wanted something in connection with them, that even he was swayed.  His larger hands were confounded by the controller at first, but he was nimble-fingered still, and picked up the basics John instructed them on quite quickly.  Having examined the machine and its parts closely already, Barsad was fairly certain he knew enough to use it, but in order to avoid small, brown, questioning eyes, he allowed himself to be taught.  The chosen game was simply designed, it seemed, with silly-looking cartoonish colors despite the mocking reality of its objects and settings. 

“I get first-player, because I played it before.  Barsad, you get second, and Bane third, but second and third are pretty much the same, really, so it doesn’t matter which you two get,” John explained as he set up the game and handed them their controllers.  A sweeping view of a race track appeared on-screen, and apparently they were each assigned a small vehicle to race with.  John took the controllers briefly, in order to choose their vehicles and the proxy drivers that were to sit inside. 

John’s was dressed in green, and spoke out in a much exaggerated Italian accent when he was chosen.  Bane’s was not human, it seemed, but some sort of armored turtle, complete with spikes.  Barsad’s, at the last, was a miniature creature with a large mushroom cap on his head.  Barsad raised his eyebrow as it was chosen, and received a giggle from his boy. 

“Look, I know he’s tiny, but it’s because he’s so FAST,” John defended.  “Because _you’re_ fast,” he repeated, trying to gain points back.  The damage, however, had already been done; Barsad could hear Bane’s rumble of laughter from beneath the mask, could see the shake of his shoulders as he kept his eyes on the screen, not seeming to feel the need to _see_ Barsad’s indignation to expect it.

“So I am also tiny, then?”  Their boy’s eyes widened quickly, and for a moment, his mouth dropped open without sound.

“N—… I mean, that’s not—…”  A hum from Barsad and a firm ruffle to John’s hair mercifully relieved him of any further explanations as they began.  He would, naturally, remember the slight, and tease him for it later.

The game itself was rather simple—steer with the center toggle, try not to go off the track, come in first.  There were a number of other buttons that allowed the driver on the screen to shoot items, leave them behind the vehicle, and perform parking-brake style turns, and John seemed to know each one without fail as Barsad experimented.  With the screen split into four quadrants—one blank, as they only involved three players—there was much distraction involved, and Barsad found his eyes darting between views.  He remained on the track, however, and even managed to trap John’s car several times with items gleaned from reward ‘boxes’. 

Pleased to have crossed the finish line a hair before John, Barsad readied a smirk and a comment on ‘tiny but fast’ characters, only to blink in surprise as the final positions ran a list down the screen.  John was silent beside him as they both watched the icon for Bane’s spiked turtle appear at the top of the list, first place.

“How did…” John’s jaw remained slack, his brows bent in question as he looked over at Bane.  “How did you win?  I saw you, you weren’t even pressing buttons half the time…”

“I was second,” Bane corrected, pointing towards the lower left corner of the screen.  The corner where _Barsad’s_ car was currently taking a non-victory lap.  “Just there.”

John was silent for only a moment before hooting with laughter.  “You were watching HIS!” small fingers pointed to Barsad through giggles.  “That’s not even your cart, and you won, anyway!”

Their little one continued to laugh as Barsad snatched the controlling device from Bane’s hand, examining it in comparison to his own.  “How have you cheated,” he muttered, only fueling John’s amusement, the boy having slid from a seated position down to the floor on his side.

Barsad, on the other hand, found his hands liberated of controllers in the same moment, his body pushed to the side in much the same position as John’s, only pressed firmly into the couch cushion with Bane’s atop it, a large hand smushed against his face in reprimand.


End file.
